Two Parades: Palm Sunday 2010

Two Parades: One down from the Mount of Olives, the other from the coast, bringing the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, and extra Roman legions into the city to “keep the peace” during the festival of Passover.
Passover, being a festival of liberation, was an occasion of special concern to the government of occupation. Religious pilgrims poured into the city, crowding the streets, filling the temple, overflowing into encampments around the city walls, for a feast that includes a re-telling of the burdens of slavery, a reminder that God hears the call of those who are oppressed, and a warning to any who would oppress God’s chosen people.
The festival of Passover made Rome nervous. It also made collaborators like Caiaphas and Herod nervous, because they were appointed by Rome and protected by Rome. So the troops marched in from the east, line after line, marching, marching, before and behind the Roman Governor Pontius Pilate, the local representative of Caesar Augustus, who was not only Emperor, but also, according to him and to the engraving on Roman coins, “son of God.” Pilate would have been carried on a litter, or a chariot, or mounted on a war horse, in this display of military might. This parade was meant to intimidate. It was a public display of power intended to quell any ideas of rebellion, that might be inspired by the festival of freedom that is Passover.
And down from the Mount of Olives, on the opposite side of the city, came a parody of Pilate. Not on a war horse or chariot, but on the colt of an ass. A grown man on a donkey’s colt… it must have been as ridiculous as a man on a tricycle. And this King, this Jesus, was not accompanied by men of war, but by a crowd of disciples, shouting praises for the "King who comes in the name of the Lord.” Beating swords against shields, the Roman soldier would have made a terrifying, thunderous din. In contrast, the disciples praised God for all they had seen in Jesus, and invoked the peace of heaven. Pilate came to enforce the so-called peace of Rome by military threat; Jesus came, announcing the peace of heaven, the peace of God, the fulfillment of all the hopes of the people.
There were two parades in Jerusalem, parades. One a show of force, a menacing warning. The other, a proclamation of peace. These parades were on a collision course. In the week that followed the power of Rome and the power of God met, and on the surface, it may appear that Rome was victorious. Their man, Pilate, walked away unharmed, God's man, Jesus, was crucified. But that, as you know, is not the end of the story. The Easter gospel proclaims that once Rome did it's worst, Christ rose again, and lives eternally.
But, Palm Sunday is an event that repeats itself, not only literally, chronically, but figuratively in our hearts and in our lives. Whenever we are faced with a choice between the peace of Rome and the peace of Christ we relive this day. Whether to accept our place in a culture of violence, or leave the violence behind us and take our place behind Jesus the Prince of Peace, and his donkey, that is the Palm Sunday of the soul. Let us contemplate, which parade we follow.

The Anointing: John 12:1-8

The story of the anointing is recorded in all four gospels. Looking at the parallel versions of the story we can see how the telling evolved over the years. Each version reveals more about the evolving interpretation of Jesus, as the church in every generation sought to answer the question which Jesus once posed to his disciples, "Who do you say that I am?"
I am partial to Mark's version (14:3-9), in part, I suppose because it was the text for the sermon which John Riggs preached on the occasion of my ordination, on the 10th of June, 1990.

While he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he sat at the table, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment of nard, and she broke open the jar and poured the ointment on his head.
[But some were there who said to one another in anger, ‘Why was the ointment wasted in this way? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.’ And they scolded her. But Jesus said, ‘Let her alone; why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial.] 
Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’

The terribly ironic postscript being that even Mark's gospel failed to identify this woman. Mark's gospel may have been compiled around the year 70, that means 40 years after the fact, a mere two generations later, the church has forgotten the name of the woman whose story, Jesus said, would be told "in remembrance of her." Who is she? "A woman" is all that Mark and Matthew wrote, "came with an alabaster jar, and poured it on his head." Luke changed the location of the story from the house of Simon the Leper to the house of an unnamed Pharisee, and the locus of the anointing to the feet instead of the head. Luke also elaborated on the identity of the woman, describing her as "a sinner," implying that she was a woman of loose morals as well as loose hair (as the story goes, she bathed Jesus' feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair). And finally John, written, at the earliest, twenty years after Mark, a full generation, or perhaps two generations later, retained Luke's change from the anointing of the head to the anointing of the feet. John also moved the location once again, and gave the woman a name, identifying her as Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus and Martha.
All these changes depoliticized the story, made it more acceptable to proper Roman ears, as the church grew in number, and reached different classes of people. The audience for the gospel stories changed over the years, from the Jewish peasants of occupied Judea and Gallilee, to the urban Jews of the diaspora, to the gentiles and the households of imperial Rome. Consider another change in the gospels, how in the earlier gospels the blame for the crucifixion shifts from Rome-- it's rightful place, for only the Roman rulers had the authority to crucify a convict-- to "the Jews." The gospel of John places the blame on "the Jews." Jesus was a Jew! His disciples were Jews! This too, I belive, is an unfortunate redaction, an editorial process intended to widen the church's sphere of influence. Changes made for the best intentions, perhaps, but to unfortunate, indeed tragic, consequences.
In its earliest context, this is the story of Jesus being anointed as kings were anointed. The act itself alludes to the act of the prophet Samuel, who anointed David as king of Israel. When Samuel did this, Saul was still king of Israel. It was an act of treason on his part, an act of treason which God commanded him to do. Anointing is a demonstration that says: the Spirit of the Lord rests upon this one. This is the true king, a son of God-- which was a title for the king of Israel-- and a son of David.

And I believe Jesus recognized this anointing as his death sentence. Herod was certainly not going to allow someone else to call himself the king of the Jews, a title Herod coveted. Rome was certainly not going to allow someone to call himself the king of the Jews. Anointing Jesus as king was tantamount to anointing him for his burial: His fate was sealed. As Saul sought to kill David, so Herod and Pilate would seek to kill Jesus. That is why, I believe, Jesus responded as he did, saying, "she has prepared my body for burial." In accepting this kingship, he was accepting his violent death.
David responded to his kingship by leading men into battle, in a long and bloody civil war. Jesus responded in a profoundly different way. Accepting his anointing, knowing that it would end in violence, he refused to meet violence with violence. He chose to die alone, not to lead others to their death. He chose to die the way he lived, and he lived the way he taught. Loving his enemies, praying for those who persecuted him, blessing those who cursed him.
At the beginning of this Lenten season, we read of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness. We read from Luke's version of the story, which ends with this ominous promise: "the devil departed from him until an opportune time." Now, this was the opportune time, the time to decide how to receive and respond to his anointing. This was the last temptation, and the beginning of the victory.

The Season of the Second Chance

And then Jesus told this parable about the fig tree, that was in danger of being chopped down or up-rooted. It was wasting space, the landowner thought. But the gardener, the patient gardener, made a case to spare the tree for another season. Let me dig around it, put some manure on it. I believe you will see figs next year. If you don't, then you can cut it down. Thus the gardener gave the fig tree a second chance.
I find poetic significance in the manure. What the tree needed most was refuse, manure, nothing of value, in fact something which is usually considered no good to anyone, and it is in copious supply wherever there are animals. Manure happens. Remember the bumper sticker?
I am sure we can all think of a time when we felt absolutely up to our necks in manure. Asking ourselves, "Why is all this manure happening to me. My life is a veritable manure storm." A sickness, loss of a job, divorce, whatever. But then, a few weeks or months or years later, we can look back and say, "You know, that was really awful, but if that hadn't happened, then I would not have become the person that I am today. If it weren't for that illness, I would never have developed the compassion or the patience for others who are in pain. Or if I hadn't been fired from that job, I would never have had the courage to make a new life in a new line. Or, if it hadn't been for that divorce, I wouldn't have met the person who is now the love of my life."
I'm not saying that God makes bad things happen so that we can grow. I'm saying that manure happens. I don't know what role God plays in it, God's ways are higher than ours, and the same with God's thoughts and plans. I do believe when manure happens, God is able to use it for our good. God takes it and turns it into something that gives growth. And we get a second chance, an extended season.
Lent is the season of repentance, which is another way to say it is the season of the second chance. We know Lent will come again next year, but none of us know for certain whether we will come around again. So teach us to number our days, that we may grow in wisdom, and use the time at hand to produce those good fruits of the spirit-- goodness, kindness, patience and the like-- and rejoice in all circumstances, for God is working it all into the soil from which we are made. Thanks be to God. Amen.

When God said, "Shut up and Listen"

Sometimes in the life of the church there is tension between piety and service. Some people think that the main thing is worship, while others believe working in the world to heal the sick and feed the hungry is the highest expression of the faith. Discipleship was never meant to be so divided. We worship and serve. We go to the mountain to pray, we come down to serve. Each experience flows into the other.

This was illustrated most profoundly on our Chicago mission trip, some years ago, when we worked one morning with the Sisters of Charity at their mission house, in their kitchen, chopping vegetables and washing fruit, to prepare a mid-day meal for whoever was hungry. We worked side by side with the sisters and other volunteers. The Sisters observe the hours for prayer prescribed by the 1,500-year-old Rule of St Benedict. When it was time for prayer, they prayed aloud, while we all continued to work together. The chopping and cooking and stirring took on the rhythm of the Our Father and the Hail Mary, and it was the most beautiful union of piety and service. “Prayer and work, work and prayer” is the Order in miniature.

There is so much work to be done. There are so many wounds to be healed, so many hungry people to feed, so many divisions to be reconciled in peace. But we do not have the power to do good apart from God. Apart from God our bodies fail, our compassion cools, hope gives way to despair. On the mountain we are reminded who is the source of our strength, our love, and our hope. Listen to him! We must return again and again to the source of light and life, so that we will have light to shine, and life to share.

Looking Deeper

“Vocation” is a word that, to most of us, means an occupation, a skill, a trade. Auto mechanics, carpentry, all those courses that were taught in the “Voc Ed” wing of the high school. But if you were raised Catholic, or attended a Catholic school, and someone asked “Do you have a vocation?” you probably would have shook your head and slowly backed away, certain that you did not want to be a nun or a priest. Or maybe you did.

Vocation is what a person is called to be. The Latin root of the word is vocare, “to call.” We often use the word when we really mean “a line of work.” For some lucky people, their vocation is also their job, they actually get paid to do what they feel they were put on earth to do! Artists who can actually make a living at their art, natural born teachers and healers who earn the credentials to work as teachers and healers, I count among the fortunate few. But most people in this world just get to work, hard, at whatever they can do to provide for themselves and the people who depend on them. I don’t believe anyone was called by God to sew T-shirts for Hanes in a dimly lit factory every day. And I don’t think anyone was called by God to go down the mines to bring up diamonds for DeBeers. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.

I’ve been thinking about “vocation” because this week’s Gospel reading is the story of the call of three disciples, Peter, James and John. They get to appear next week too, in the story of the transfiguration (shiny Jesus on the mountain), but this week we read the beginning of their story, according to Luke, in which they meet Jesus at the end of a hard day’s night. They had been all night on the sea, casting their nets, coming up empty. (Hey, did anyone see that Discovery channel show on crabbing? It’s the world’s dangerous catch.) They are cleaning their nets, and probably thinking about going home to get some sleep, when Jesus gets in Peter’s boat and asks him to take out a little ways. Jesus preaches to the crowds from the boat, the calm sea providing natural amplification, as anyone knows, who has ever sat by the lake on a calm night and heard the fishermen telling jokes they thought no little ears could hear.

Maybe that is why the thought of “going deeper” in the faith is daunting.

Then, when the sermon was over, Jesus told Peter to go out to the deep water, and let down his nets. Which he had just cleaned. After catching nothing all night. I sense a bit of skepticism, but by this time, maybe Peter was just too tired to argue. He let down his nets and brought up the biggest catch ever, so heavy that the nets were fit to burst, and he had to call his partners, James and John, with the other boat, to bring in the catch.

And here’s the really weird bit: Peter, James and John, they quit, right then and there, at the top of their game, after the most successful catch ever. They didn’t even wait to sell the fish. They just left everything, even old Zebedee, and walked away with Jesus. Now that seems terribly unkind and irresponsible. I imagine Zebedee staring, gape-mouthed, after them.

When Peter went out “into the deep” what did he find, besides the fish that had eluded him all night? “The deep” is where creation began. In the beginning, God exhaled over the face of the deep, and called the world into being. When he drew up his nets from the deep, what else did he draw up? A new creation? A new spirit? A new man? One who was no longer Simon the Fisherman, but one who was becoming Peter, the rock?

Maybe that is why the thought of “going deeper” in the faith is daunting. If we go deeper, we may be transformed. And maybe this transformation will mean that we cannot go back the way we came. Perhaps it is safer, just to skim the surface, to take from the faith just enough comfort and hope to get by, but not enough to transform us into followers who give it all up.

Well, well, well, Lookin' for the water from a deeper well.

We once lived in the Sand Hills of Nebraska-- Richard, and Julia and I (this was before Jennifer). Geologically speaking, the Sand Hills are a moon-scape of stabilized dunes, held in place by long grass, yucca, wildflowers, and sage. It is an arid land. People there never dared pray for rain, they talked hopefully of getting “a little moisture.” It was an unsettled land until the railroad went through, and it would not have been a land to sustain much more than bird life if it weren’t for the ingenuity of the well. There was, in fact, plenty of water just below the surface. The Sand Hills cover the Ogallala Aquifer, a vast underground lake of fresh water. Folks might have to drill deep, but wherever they sink their well, they draw from the same aquifer. That’s how I visualize it, anyway: every pump pulling water up from the same source.

That is also how I see other spiritual traditions. Contemplative prayer, Gregorian chant, Buddhist meditation, Hatha yoga, Kabbalah, Sufism—all are born of the same yearning of the soul for union with the source of all life, which we call God. There are different wells, but ultimately, we draw from the same source.

Who Do You Think You Are?

I was in the car, listening to mid-day on Public Radio, and I think Julia was with me when I heard Mitch Albom talking about his book, Have a Little Faith. Albom was describing a conversation he had with his rabbi, who was nearing the end of his life. The rabbi prayed in his characteristic sing-song voice,

Dear God,
Please let Mitch lead a long and interesting life,
So that when we meet in heaven,
We will have lots to talk about.

And he smiled.
But Mitch was uncomfortable, and his old rabbi could see that something was bothering him.
What?
Well, I don’t think we are going to the same place.
Why not?
Because, you’re on a different level, you’re a man of God.
So are you the rabbi said. Everyone is.

I could feel the rabbi’s pain when I heard that story. I said aloud, “The man’s been working all his life to tell you, Mitch, that you’re a child of God, and you still don’t get it! What’s up with that?”

Julia just laughed. She’s used to hearing me argue with the radio.

But even a man or woman of God needs reminding, now and then, of who and whose we are. It’s not just a New Testament thing, it goes back to the beginning, to when God made us, male and female, in God’s own image, God made us as children, created us and declared us good. Behold! It was very good.

And in the time of the prophet Isaiah God spoke to a people who felt something less than human, because they were a defeated and enslaved nation. God said,

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by name, you are mine!”

This season of the church year which we call “after Epiphany,” or Ordinary Time, it begins and ends with the voice of God. When Jesus was baptized he, and perhaps he alone heard the voice say, you are my son, my beloved. And at the end of this season we will hear that again, when Jesus is on the mountaintop with Peter, James and John, and Moses and Elijah too. The cloud will cover the mountain and the voice from the cloud will boom,

“This is my Son, my beloved. Listen to him!”

Listen to him and watch and learn. Rabbi Jesus was all about calling people to their true identity. Calling them by name, and sometimes giving them a new name, something to live up to. To Simon the fisherman he said, you are the rock, Peter. There was a woman who was healed on the Sabbath day, a woman who was called “untouchable” by the pious religious leaders, but Jesus reminded them and her of her true name, “daughter of Israel.” And she was redeemed, set free, healed and made whole.

When we are lost, the one who calls us by name can save us.

Those of us who went on the mission trip to Pine Ridge (SD), had the privilege of witnessing a naming ceremony. When the Lakota people were defeated, seven generations ago, their children were taken into religious boarding schools. The children lost their homes and families, and the next thing that they lost was their names. Their Lakota names were taken from them, and they were given names like Mary and Sally and Jack and Will. They were forbidden to speak their old names. As the generations passed, so did the Lakota language.

But now, the people have recovered the power of their name. Lakota people do not chose their own names, but ask a tribal elder to dream a name for them. And the elder considers the person’s past and potential, and gives a Lakota name to live up to-- a name with the power to redeem, to set free.

When we are baptized, we are named. We speak the particular names by which the person who is being baptized will be called: like “Anna Sophia,” or “James Robert,” names given by their parents, to honor their ancestors, or confer a virtue. But we also speak our common name, the name that identifies us as members of the same family, the name which connects us with all the people of the earth: “Child of God.”

This is the name which has the power to remind us who and whose we are, and therefore call us out from darkness into light, from slavery into freedom, from sickness into wholeness. This is the name which reminds us that we are born for blessing, created and declared good. This is the name which calls us to rise up and become master over our addictions, healer of our wounds, and restorers of our own brokenness.

It is also the name that reminds us of our relation to every living thing. It reminds us that the irritating clerk at the store is our sister, that the man writing up a speeding ticket is our brother. When we are tempted to say in anger and frustration, “Just who do you think you are,” we must stop and remember that we know the answer to that question already. You are a child of God. So before we speak or act we must remember that we are bound together, as members of one family. When we live in peace, God rejoices.

How very good and pleasant it is when brothers and sister live together in unity! (Psalm 133)

We have the opportunity today to remember our baptism, to remember who and whose we are by participating in an affirmation of baptism. If you chose you can come to the font and receive a sprinkling of the water and a reminder of your identity and a call to remember your baptism.

We have the opportunity every day to give to another the same power that comes from remembering and being called by our true name, "child of God." How do we confirm that identity in others? In what ways can we speak and act to convince the self-destructive youth and the withering elder that they are children of God. How do we reach out, and down, and raise a brother up, wake a sister from living death-- like Jesus did? For if we are imitators of Christ, that is what we must do. If we are followers of Jesus, that is the way to go.

May God bless us with insight, and creativity, and courage to follow the light that goes before us. Amen.